It’s spring. You are standing by the lake and all melted. Melted the ice and the snow. Melted the poplars, the creek, the sky. They all spilled, maybe into water. You are standing by the lake, standing on the hills melted into nothingness. An unspecified nothing.
It’s summer. You are standing by the lake and all burned out. Burned out the grass, the road. Burned out the misty dawns, the arid steppes, the days and the nights, and the minutes and the moments. They all burned out, maybe into fire. You are standing by the lake along the road that burned into nowhere.
It’s autumn. You are standing by the lake and all rotted away. Rotted away the fruits, the harvest. Rotted away the colors. Rotted away the rhythm, the melody, the repetition. They all rotted away, maybe into earth. You are standing by the lake on a gossamer rotted away into nothingness.
It’s winter. You are standing by the lake and everything has frozen. Frozen the lake, the reed, the electric wires. Frozen the light and frozen the sound. They all froze, maybe into air. You are standing by the lake in the light frozen into nothingness.
There is? Listen to the shed in autumn aspen leaves rustle, or the ripple on the water under the ice. Curves of the hills repose your eyes, grass could fit your hand. Fog shelters your steps, nights fulfill your days. But there is no lake nor reeds. Neither do aspens. No images on the eye, no sound in the ear. If there would be light, you may say that it’s all white. Or all black. And silence. But there is no silence, neither, it also froze. Lightless, shadowless. Soundless and silentless: the middle of nowhere. An unspecified nothing.
Imagine that there is not. Would grow you a voice. Would you increase you a sound, a taste. A taste, a touch. A touch, a shadow. Would grow you a hope.
Imagine that there is.
Buy me. Buy me with a shadow.